Brady lost no more time. The sling went round the beam and then his waist. He snapped the spring links together, leaned well back, bracing himself against the sling, and started to climb.
It was really no worse than some of the construction jobs he had worked on, he told himself. That bridge in Venezuela, for instance, high in the Sierras, with the winds blowing men from their perches like flies every week, had been infinitely more dangerous. The only difference was that he’d been paid for doing that — well paid.
He conquered an insane desire to laugh and looked down. The patch of light had receded, had grown infinitely smaller. It was as if the prison itself was falling away from him and he took a deep breath and moved on.
On several occasions he had to unhook his crude safety belt as he came to cross girders, but it was only as he moved towards the edge of the dome itself that he experienced any real difficulty.
The beams curved round, hugging the wall for the last ten feet or so, and there was only an inch or two behind them where he might push one end of the sling. That he would fail to attempt it never really entered his head. He looked down from his perch on a cross beam, down to that tiny patch of light below, and then forced one end of the sling behind the beam and snapped the links into position.
The first couple of feet weren’t too bad, but as the cupola started to curve, his body inclined outwards. He forced his feet hard against the beam and leaned his weight against the sling. Inch by painful inch he moved up until his body was seemingly arched out in a bow and he knew that if he dropped back his head the merest fraction, he would be able to look straight down at that light below. Once, his foot slipped and the sling creaked ominously. His bowels turned to water. He braced his feet desperately, moved another six inches in one try, and reached up and over the ledge.
His fingers groped about desperately and finally fastened over a ridge of metal. He hung there, delicately balancing himself with one hand, and with the other, carefully unhooked the sling.
Just as deliberately, he secured it about his waist. His body started to swing outwards. He reached up with the other hand, doubled his grip on the ridge of metal, and heaved himself up on to the ledge.
He lay there for a moment, breathing deeply, his hands shaking a little. There was enough room only for his body squeezed against the curved glass panes. The ventilating window was on the other side and he started to crawl cautiously round.
The ledge was thick with the dust of the years and it drifted down into the gloom, filling his nostrils, making him want to sneeze badly.
The window was closed. He tried to push it open, but it refused to budge and he took out his wire cutters and severed the wire line which curved round the cupola down to the hall below. He held on to the severed ends and doubled them carefully over the metal catch, and then he pushed the window open and crawled out on to the ledge outside.
The view was magnificent and the lights of Manningham gleamed through the curtain of rain. A train passed along the track, its whistle echoing through the night and he breathed in the freshness and was filled with a fierce delight.
The fall pipe was the original Victorian one, square and sturdy and nailed against the wall as firmly as if the builders had intended it to serve the life of the building.
He went backwards over the edge without a thought, hung for a moment from the square box at the top, and started to descend, his fingers moving easily in the gap between the pipe and the wall.
It took him little more than a minute to reach the ridge of D Block. There was a car standing outside the gate office in the yard below. A duty officer came out and leaned down to the window. A moment later he signalled and the gates started to open and the car drove out. Probably the governor going to one of his Sunday night bridge parties. Brady grinned involuntarily. The bastard would have something to occupy himself with tomorrow.
He moved easily along the ridge of the roof, a foot on either side, hands braced on the tiles. The laundry chimney was still warm and he moved to one side of it and peered down.
He couldn’t see a damned thing. He remembered Evans’s words about getting this far and still having a better than even chance of breaking his neck, and shivered slightly. He pushed the thought away from him and squatting against the wall, quickly uncoiled the length of manilla.
In a way, this was the trickiest part of the whole operation. He couldn’t tie the rope to the chimney because he needed it to descend the outer wall. He passed one end round and for a moment, stood there, bracing himself, the double strands firmly gripped in both hands, and then he went over the edge.
His feet slipped against the wet brickwork and he swung against the wall, skinning his knuckles, and his legs bumped painfully against the pipe.
He sat on it, legs astride, back against the wall, and pulled on one end of the rope and it snaked down through the night. He coiled it quickly, slipped it around his neck, and started to inch his way across the pipe.
For those remaining minutes, time seemed to come to a stop and all sounds were muted as he moved through the almost total darkness. It seemed like a dream to him when he reached out with one hand, touched rough stone, and looked up to see the edge of the wall, a dark line against the night sky.
He quickly uncoiled the rope, fastened one end around the pipe and tossed the other over the wall. His fingers hooked into a tiny crack in the stonework and he stood up.
The edge of the wall was comfortably within his reach. He pulled himself up, carefully negotiated the rusty iron spikes and slithered down the other side. He dangled at the end of the rope for a moment before dropping six feet into wet grass at the top of the railway cutting.
He was soaked to the skin and as a train approached, he lay down and turned his face into the wet grass, heart pounding painfully. When it had passed into the distance, the sound of it still trembling on the damp air, he got to his feet and slithered down the bank without even a backward glance at the wall behind him.
As he crossed the track and scrambled up the bank on the other side, a clock struck the half-hour. Twenty minutes from leaving his cell — that’s all it had taken. Unless anything went wrong, that gave him twelve hours before first rounds in the morning.
He went over the low wall into the churchyard and moved cautiously between the gravestones. Light showed in the tall windows and an organ played the opening bars of a hymn. A moment later the congregation joined in, their voices rising into the night.
He decided that evening service must be just starting. He kept to the wall all the way round to the gate and slipped out.
It was a poor neighbourhood, the streets lined with dilapidated terrace houses and the shop stood on the corner only twenty or thirty yards away. A van swished by, tyres hissing on the wet asphalt, and then there was silence.
As he crossed the street, he had the key ready in his hands. His stomach was suddenly hollow and for the first time, he was afraid. Perhaps Evans had been wrong. Perhaps the key wouldn’t fit the lock?
He moved into the dark entrance of the shop, hesitated for the merest fraction of a second, and then bent down. His groping fingers found the lock, the key turned smoothly. A moment later, he was standing inside, his back to the door, shaking with reaction.
There was a door behind the counter and he moved round quickly and opened it. A small window looked out into a dark backyard and he drew the curtain and switched on the light.
The room was crammed with stock from floor to ceiling. Most of the stuff looked second-hand and he quickly found a serviceable tweed suit and selected a pair of shoes from a pile in one corner. He found the other things he needed on the shelves.